Lincanto di cenere (Italian Edition)

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We also share information about the use of the site with our social media, advertising and analytics partners. Meaning of "madrina" in the Italian dictionary. The first definition of godmother in the dictionary is a woman who baptizes or updates a girl or a child. Another definition of godmother is a woman who presides over an inauguration.

Madrina is also midwife. Synonyms and antonyms of madrina in the Italian dictionary of synonyms. Examples of use in the Italian literature, quotes and news about madrina. In Italia molti neonati vengono battezzati: Tina Glasl, Stefanie Reger. La madrina visitatrice, esperta di psicologia infantile, gli chiese benevolmente: Oh mia Madrina luna, mia Madrina del Cielo, dammi la benedizione; mia Madrina!

Learn more at Author Central. Popularity Popularity Featured Price: Low to High Price: High to Low Avg. Diari dal sottosuolo Italian Edition Apr 22, Available for download now. Only 1 left in stock - order soon. L'incanto di cenere Italian Edition Dec 21, Available to ship in days. Regina di fiori e radici Italian Edition Sep 21, Yurutsuki Italian Edition Jul 06, Nel raffrontare i due traduttori, vanno stabilite delle differen- ze. Usa un inglese decoroso, formale, con qualche tratto desueto. Entrambe le aggiunte sono zeppe metriche, tuttavia non estra- nee al contesto: In Greene ritornano tratti antiquati e retorici: I due traduttori hanno delle espressioni in comune.

Dal che si penserebbe ancora che il traduttore moderno potrebbe aver tratto spunti dal precedente. Vediamo tornare qui un espe- diente usato daTusiani per rendere anche altri metri: Ci fa tornare alla mente il caso di Emily Dickinson, che reclusasi vo- lontariamente per anni fra quattro mura nella sua casa di Amherst, nel Massachu- setts, scrisse quasi frammenti poetici che contribuirono a fondare la poesia americana moderna.

Ma alcuni tratti sembrano proprio ravvicinarla a questa Miranda reclusa in stanza. E forse il confronto testuale fra autore e autrice andrebbe esteso. Non solo qui, ma anche in altri luoghi notiamo questo as- sottigliarsi delle percezioni. Dovunque il guardo io volgo Dalle finestre, nereggiar li vedo A selve, a gruppi, or densi ora dispersi. Come si aman gli abeti! Torno per un attimo alla Dickinson. In fatto di traduzione, le due recenti poesie rese da Joseph JIT Dagli spiriti mali, Signor, guarda i mortali!

Dagli spiriti mali Guarda i mortali! Al bronzo ancora Sia pace. Con rotta lena Mia lunga pena Le piango omai. Solo un accento, Solo un lamento, Solo un sospiro Ancora, un bacio! Le stelle ridono Vaghe del nitido Speglio sereno; Mi trema e palpita Vespero in seno.

Solo un accento, Solo un lamento, Solo un sospiro, Un bacio. The hour of darkness cometh. Come, let us pray. Hear us, O Lord! Save Thine eternity, Are vanity. Echoes from the Valleys Vanity! For so much sin unknown, and so much pain. Echoes from the Valleys O Holy One! Echoes from the Valleys Alone canst tell! That lives its life intense, Loves, suffers Thine adverse Inscrutable decrees. Peace to the wave, to the hill These voices, too, be still: Echoes from the Valleys Peace! One accent alone, One murmur, one moan.

One sigh — only this — As thy pebbles I kiss. Be silent, O deep! The stars as they smile Fall in love for awhile With my mirror serene: In my bosom bright Vesper reflected is seen. One sigh — only this One kiss. The silent waves hear; The dark mountains hear; They list, and hear only My murmurs austere. Keep, Lord, from evil the men of dying day! The Bells of Osteno We, too, upon the waves from lonely shores must, one by one with deep voice run. And keep from evil the men of dying day!

All the Bells The light is born and dies: All that has birth, save Your eternity, O Lord, on earth is vain. Echoes from the Valleys Is vain. All grief and terror that still despise You, all human error that still denies You, all love by You not blest nor won, forgive, O Holy One! Echoes from the Valleys Can know the truth. Echoes from the Valleys Oh, peace! The Wave of the Lake And is the shore asleep, whose love I in me keep? Only one word, only one cry, only one sigh, and one more kiss. Be still, oh, peace! The stars are smiling in this clear mirror, calm and beguiling; and Vesper trembles, and beats fast upon my breast.

Only one cry, only one sigh, and one more kiss. The Waterfall of Rescia These waves have no more peace, these waves can no more cease: Talora per la tua porta che geme Entran lume di cielo, odor di mare, Qualche figura taciturna e mesta; Ed anche in me, talora, entrano insieme Un folle ardor vitale che dispare, Un dolce viso tenero che resta.

To the Ideal and to the God I love one lamp still glows with its immortal light.

At times through this your door, which seems to moan, fragrance of sea and glimpse of heaven pass, or some sad person, silent and forlorn. And so to me, at times, together come a frantic warmth of life that quickly wanes and a sweet face that tenderly remains. Fuor da ogni finestra Nel chiaror delle nebbie il lago appare, Quale deserto, sconfinato mare.

Io sederei a poppa ed essi a prora; Senza parlar ci guarderemmo allora. Beyond, the lake appears in misty night, Like a deserted, boundless sea at night. Could I sail out upon this desert sea, Sail out alone, sail out afar and free; And, when the vanishing shores are lost to view, Yield to my thoughts and to the waters blue! And they will see the bit of art I learned, and smile at such a little knowledge found; and when in vain they will have sought and sought, they will explore the cells of every thought.

And then, before they leave me, with disdain they will, my darling, open this my heart, and out of it will dazzle then and there the deep-stored sunshine of your golden hair. Looking at last at your fine hair of gold, and at your pensive eyes deep as the sea, JIT Si sentiano i canti ; E dopo, che silenzio! From my window, though, I saw so many people on the road Beyond the meadow. Feeble songs were heard. And then, what silence! One small falling leaf I even heard as on the ground it lay.

Strange, I can hear now every little sound. Gelido fu il viso, Gelide e rade furon le parole; Ma per mille reconditi pensieri Non detti mai, compresi, eran congiunte Le nostre vite. Confitti negli abissi dei burroni Dove sole non penetra, protesi Sulle cascate candide, sublimi Sulle torri scoscese ove non giunge Nemico piede, voi felici, abeti! Vorrei di qua levarmi, Non posso.

How fir-trees love each other! But underneath, their slender roots are eager To search, embrace, and strengthen one another, In countless knots commingled avidly. It was like this one day. We used to live One near the other. Still our looks were cold, And still our words were also cold and few; But through a thousand deeply hidden thoughts, Unsaid yet understood, our lives were bound. O fir-trees, happy fir-trees!

Nailed and stuck Down in the depth of every precipice Where sunshine does not enter, springing up Over white-foaming cascades, and sublime Above steep, rugged towers where no foe Sets ever foot, O happy, happy trees! Living together in dark solitude Suits you, nor are you pricked by other dreams, Under the snow, save of the future sun.

How from this very pen Do such new ardent syllables come out? Am I perhaps this moment in his thoughts Or is my soul now touched by the warm breath Kindling his songs? Or is it only love, This love whereof I die, and which through forests And mountains keeps a part of him reserved For him alone?

She is the author of Speaking Spirits: His spirited sense of humor was on display, even well beyond the comic exempla that peppered his sermons, as evidenced by the painter Volterrano, who figured Piovano in animated dinner conversation https: Ever the jokester, Mainardi composed the epitaph for his own tomb in Florence, which in Italian reads: I had this tomb built for myself and for anyone else who might like to join me inside it.

The two anecdotes translated for the first time into English here are num- JIT The force behind the humor of such examples of early Italian popular literary prose often hinges on linguistic wordplay, including puns or sophisticated quips. Sometimes, as in the first case here, they implicitly critique the beliefs or behaviors of characters representing the cultural elite. Facezie tend to be far shorter with less character and narrative development than the typical novella, and their messages are not aimed at moral edification, oftentimes deliberately satiriz- ing such writings, so they are not usually stated as explicitly as the lessons in exempla or favole, for instance.

Among other Italian writers of motti and facezie are Franco Sacchetti in his Trecentono- velle, as well as Poggio Bracciolini and Giovanni Pontano , who wrote their anecdotes in Latin. While I did not analyze the Motti e facezie di Piovano Arlotto in Speaking Spirits, I refer readers to it for examples of the myriad ways that other Renaissance Italians feigned ghostly voices for their own purposes.

The protagonist of the first translated anecdote is Lionardo, the soul of Leonardo Bruni Although originally from Arezzo, Bruni rose to become the Florentine Cancelliere della Repub- blica from until his death. He is esteemed among the great Renaissance Italian humanists for his scholarly contributions, which include the Historiae florentini populi in twelve volumes, his two Dialogi ad Petrum Paulum Histum, the De interpretatione recta, biographies of Dante and Petrarch, and translations from Greek JIT Here Mainardi effectively denounces Bruni for his perceived sin of greed by fictionally representing the charge as a self-accusation made by the roving spirit.

He implies that the imperious Muses are ultimately unreliable. Arlotto neither comes across as heartlessly cruel, nor at all religiously abstemious; his act of withholding wine from the equally etiquette-challenged ghost of the humanist may suggest that Arlotto finds Lionardo to be exaggerating the urgency of his thirst.

Nevertheless, I opted for this translation, which captures the hyperbole with a similarly colloquial tone, but also tickles the awkwardness of a ghost complaining of a bodily necessity. Just as Petrarch trembled, froze, and burned out of love of Laura, so Bruni responds to his own passion, which is notably not for the state of his soul.

Another esteemed historical figure mentioned in this facezia is Jacopone da Todi c. He was the Franciscan friar who composed pious lauds, primarily in veneration of the Virgin Mary. The lines attributed here to Jacopone da Todi do not exist in any of his lauds known to us today, but are likely intended to resemble his devout verses because there is a deliberate play on words. But in a different tone or with a different emphasis, the same lines can sound greedy and possessive, akin to: The second anecdote presents its own translation dilemmas, primarily in the form of idiomatic expressions, but also a similarly rhymed incantation to dispel the morning fog, that is the brain fogginess of the hangover that Nastagio and Zuta appear to be experiencing after over-imbibing the previous night.

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Given the narrative context Piovano is one who can talk his way out of any situation and the deeper etymology related to speech of fante one with the capacity of speech; an infant, in fact, is a being who does not yet speak , I emphasized this aspect in the translation: Piovano is a clever and consummate talker. Another idiomatic expression is non tenne la pania something did not go as expected , which is similar to cadere nella pania to fall into a trap , in that case, something akin to: In fact, Nastagio and Zuta originally aimed to get Piovano to pay for their wine, but they instead pay for Malvasia for all three of them in order to learn how the clever Piovano casts a spell to dispel their fog.

The incantation rhymes in the original Italian, but it is awk- ward: It is a choice that I fretted at far greater length than will appear on the page. I am grateful to Linda Lee, Tim Kirk, Michele Rossi, Gino Belloni, and my fellow translators of the Middlebury Bread Loaf workshop for their excellent questions and suggestions that kept me pondering deeply the process of rendering culture and language between contexts. On the Death of Leonardo Bruni from Arezzo Passing through Uccellatoio, Piovano Arlotto paused to ex- change a few words about business with Agnolo the innkeeper there.

Then he dismounted and was leading his horse into the stable when somebody — highly agitated and in a terrible hurry — called out to him: You must help me! What has become of that wisdom, learning, doctrine, and eloquence in Greek and Latin letters of yours? Where are those speeches worthy of Cicero that dazzled the entire world?

Can it be that Fame and all the Muses who once bowed before you have now abandoned you so that you find yourself in this fix? I leave my body and all my possessions. See what has become of me. Think of how I feel. I am very uncertain about my fate because I know the kind of life I led, especially in regard to my sin of greed, for which I made every type of wretched deal just to accumulate money and possessions. It cost me dearly but I never stopped wanting more. Piovano was absolutely transfixed, such that he remained there still as a statue for a full quarter hour.

When he regained his composure, he mounted and rode to Florence. For my part, I want to follow what that holy man, Brother Ja- copone da Todi said in one of his lauds, which is steeped in morals and good common sense: All is mine, I laud Since I rejoice and give, by God! And they gave charitably to wickedness together with the intention from that point on to do their utmost to always indulge themselves.

Apparvemi vostro padre e salutommi e disse: Io mi ti raccomando. Vedi se tue farnetichi: A vision came to me just before daybreak, and it feels like a thousand years passed before you arrived Piovano, I beg you, do this good act and quickly, and for our part your money is not better spent than in buying Nastagio and me a half carafe of Malvasia. I come here only to realize that you want me to work? And if he had lived eight more days, he would have been hanged.

I would not waste one coin on him. But if you two want to buy a jug of Malvasia for the three of us, I will teach you an enchantment, one that dispels the morning fog, so that it will never disturb you. Her most recent works are: Renato Filippelli, , authored eight books of poetry during his lifetime: His complete works were recently published: Tutte le poesie, Gangemi Editore, Author of six critical books and numerous educational text- books as well as newspaper and literary journal articles, Filippelli is a deeply religious poet with strong roots in Southern Italy.

His major themes are historical and cultural focusing on the plight of Southern Italy, on nature and on the minority of exploited or abused creatures and persons. These are the first English versions of his work. Ti strapperanno con oscura forza, ignara e dolce, dalla solitudine. Io sentii da lontano il suo schioppo. Nulla gli dissi, lo guardai negli occhi. They will tear you, with dark strength you, unknowing and tender, from solitude. Slobber oozing hatred will drip on your innocence.

To a Dog They killed you one morning, and you were old and so tired that not even a cry rose from your throat, few drops stained the dirt road. I heard the gunshot from afar. I said nothing, looked at him in the eyes. He approached you, the coward, pointed his arm at you, checking to see if you would fight back, then he touched you no longer afraid. But you were still alive, you raised your eyes to his face, veiled by the agony, but without rancour, sad, slowly you licked his hand with your faithful mouth.

Quelle erano le nostre donne, negli scialli del pianto: There appeared our women, wrapped in shawls of mourning proud figures who surrendered to hunger and came down from the mountains. They were behind their lined up pails, gestures of fretful but determined creatures, earth rekindling their faces with each breath of shame.

And so too the British soldier showed compassion for those shadows hovering at dusk: Oh My Beloved Dead The South burned you with staunch sun oh my own dead, my restless dead shy figures like the twisted roots of my life where a declining light deepens. The subdued event of shadows that descend from you to the sea I feel pass over me, as the earth feels the vast murmur of the grass in the rapid sweep of wind E tu fosti una statua di silenzio coi figli stretti intorno ai tuoi ginocchi, e mamma ti guardava dalla soglia.

Cadde tutta la vigna giovinetta. Tu rimanevi come un capitano fiero davanti alla sua schiera morta. They circled you with their snickers prostrating the delicate shoots, the roots planting their machine guns they searched your eyes to find your agony. As though you were a statue of silence with your children clinging to your knees and Mother watching from the doorway.

All the young vineyard fell.

You remained like a proud captain in front of your dead ranks. From Ritratto da nascondere, , Tutte le poesie Grass Grass is born on the edge of the roads it lives on a drop of light.

Over the centuries the human grass of the South felt the harsh steps of men, ignorant and on purpose, press down then leave, it bent over without dying, laid down curled up in the knots of its roots, in the slow agony of its land. Allora, in quel lontano chiarore si sbatteva, con lunghe ali di gioia, come un gabbiano, la mia infanzia.

Then, in that faraway brightness writhed my childhood like a seagull with long wings of joy, Now my blind soul digs furrows in the Earth like a mole.

His collections of poetry include Otto febbraio Scheiwiller, ; Giorni di scuola Edimond, ; Piccole poesie per banconote Polistampa, ; Corpuscolo Einaudi, ; Vecchi filmati Manni, and Mancanze Einaudi, He is also the author of the critical work Il cieco e la luna. Parlava… Le carezzai piano piano i capelli. Era tornata la calma sembrava. La mattina le carezzai i capelli. Poi, tutta la giornata. Spoke in her sleep. I slowly, slowly stroked her hair. Things turned calm it seemed. In the morning I stroked her hair.

And again, at night, upon going to bed my hand reached for the silk of her tormented little head. Era anziano e malato. Era stato un buon pianista. E adesso, in poltrona, leggeva una partitura, eseguendola in mente. He was old and sick. He had been a fine pianist. And now, in his armchair, he read a score and played it in his head. And thought is something no less incredible, if you think about it, this nothing that becomes word and movement, the stream of terms that exercises its right to be pronounced in silence and flow here transcribed, the immaterial within the material -or perhaps in its void -like Grace in its mortal body.

Her PhD is in Paleoanthropology, and her studies took her to Middle Paleolithic excavations in France and Germany, where her long- dormant love of languages was rekindled. After a second visit to Italy in , she began studying Italian at the University of Ari- zona, beginning with Italian and proceeding through all the undergraduate courses. She discovered her passion for translat- ing with the very first poem in a level Italian literature class, and began translating WWII-era short stories in with Beppe Cavatorta.

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He is the editor of several books and anthologies: Bal- leriniana with Elena Coda, , A. He is also the author of Scrivere contro Writing against, , in which he recreated a profile of experimental writing in Italy from the be- ginning of the twentieth century to the late s. Cavatorta also specializes in the theory and practice of translation and cultural interchange. He has published his translations of several American poets into Italian in the anthologies Nuova poesia Americana: San Francisco New American poetry: San Francisco, and Nuova poesia Americana: New York New American poetry: In he edited for Mondadori Poesie — Poems, — , the collected poetry of Luigi Ballerini.

Cavatorta is finally the co-editor with Luigi Ballerini of Those who from afar Look Like Flies, an anthology of Italian poetry from Officina to the present. The second volume is in the making. In , after living in various small towns throughout Italy, he settled in Rome, where he taught elementary school for the rest his life.

With Il seme del piangere The seed of tears, the poet returns to the style of his early collections and more traditional poetic forms. The comprehensive col- lection Tutte le poesie The collected poems; published by Garzanti in contains numerous previously uncollected poems.

Caproni was an amateur violinist, and music is central to this collection, in which the rhythm of the poems mirrors that of the hunt, a symbol for the attempt to capture meaning through poetry. After the death of Caproni in , Giorgio Agamben edited a new collection of his poems entitled Res amissa Things removed. Le riconosceva una per una, come il pastore riconosce le sue pecore, e nel sole infinito che batteva su di esse fermava a lungo lo sguardo su quelle pietre cariate — sul suo paese tagliato dalla rotabile a fondo valle, con tutte le case vecchie ad eccezione della sua e di poche altre, candide pei muri di calce al sole.

Her eyes came to rest on each, confirming them one by one, as a shep- herd does his sheep. And as the endless sun beat down on them, her gaze came to rest at last upon those crumbling stones — upon her village divided by the road at the bottom of the valley, upon all the old houses with their white-washed walls except for hers and a few others glowing in the sun.

But, she regained her composure — she had quietly accepted this new force growing in her; it was almost as if she had discovered that she was pregnant again. And without answering the children, filled with a profound sense of calm, she took them back to the place of her self-imposed exile over the stable in Casanova.

And looking at those planks, with cracks as wide as a finger letting the sour stink of the animals waft up, looking at her children who were so vulnerable, she wanted to explain to them the thing that she could not explain even to herself—she would have liked to instill in them at least a little of the immense hot tide that was in her, that thing that she seemed no longer able to contain. But she could say only this to her children, who had probably forgotten their question anyway: Right now they are there, and our house is no longer our own. She laid them gently on the planks, in the pungent warm air that came up from the barn, and as soon as they had fallen asleep, she had drifted back into her thoughts.

In her mind, she was climbing up the ridge and staring one-by-one JIT Un uomo, pensava Rina, simile alla gente nostra — un uomo con le nostre parole liguri sulle labbra ma incomprensibile per il significato diverso che in lui prendevano le stesse parole usate da lei o dette dalla sua gente a lei. E le pareva proprio di sentirsi ancora una volta incinta ripensando alla sera in cui il tenente con un libro in mano era disceso in cucina dalla camera a lei usurpata.

Io ammirerei suo marito se fosse qui con noi. Li ripeteva lenti — erano versi penetrati in lei lentamente, una nostalgia di lui, non ligure, per lei e i monti della Liguria di lei. Li aveva scritti suo marito in guerra e cosa poteva capire del loro lamento il tenente fascista? She saw the lieutenant in her most private room sleeping in her bed, with a machine gun on her pillow.

He is a man, thought Rina, not unlike our people — a man who speaks our Ligurian dialect, but is somehow incomprehensible; he spoke the same words that she used and that others spoke to her, but their meanings were twisted and distorted coming from his lips. She saw again in her mind the lieutenant entering her house for the first time with his men, and she finally concluded this: Because this is what she had felt: And now the warm and infinite wave that was in her grew as she replayed in her mind the Fascist officer in the semi-dark kitchen giving her orders with a voice that had tried in vain to be kind, while his men were taking over her rooms and her kitchen utensils.

Rooms and utensils that they had stolen, just as they had stolen the Ligurian words — stolen, not in the sense that those things belonged to her the partisans had also used those rooms and things, except that in that case, it was natural and right, as if she herself had used them , but rather, she recognized, because the Fascists had used those very things against her, by making her an instrument in their scheme, and thus turning her against every true thing.

And it felt again as if she were pregnant, thinking of the night when the lieutenant had come down to the kitchen, down from the bedroom he had stolen from her, with a book in his hand. I would admire him if he were here with us. In any case, here is a truly beautiful poem, with words that even I understand. Now Rina repeated the verses to herself from memory, just to make them real again.

Translation of «bonsai» into 25 languages

She recited them slowly — they were verses that entered her slowly: E la paura le era venuta la notte, dormendo con la madre vecchia e i bambini in cucina. Cui essi risposero una sola cosa: E allora mentalmente disse: He had written these words in war. What of their lament could this Fascist lieutenant possibly understand? But it was exactly this that infuriated her: And because of this, she felt him now, with those intimate words coming from his mouth, more than ever her enemy over there in her bed; he was clearly a wrong that must be righted at all cost. And now I can say that we will go back tomorrow.

The woman had fallen sound asleep in front of the JIT Volle lei stessa chiudere gli occhi ai morti e prima che ad ogni altro a Sardegna morto col pugno chiuso. When the first firing began, she told the children, who had been startled awake, that a show had begun. The October nights were becoming quite cold, so Rina hurried quickly to the house that was finally hers again. There were still fresh droppings from mules and horses on the road through Loco, and in the house an unbearable musty smell of strangers. But why had that hot wave inside her not cooled?

She had heard that four partisans had been killed, finished off by the lieutenant just before he left, each with a shot to the neck, and that was foremost in her mind — more than the intense joy that her house was her own again. Really, and she felt quite sincere thinking this she would have preferred to lose the house than to have these men lose their lives. Because she felt vaguely that they had died for her, so that she could take back her house—for herself, for her children, and also for her husband, whenever he might return.

She left her children with her mother, saying: Il Natale diceva Pablo Ma il Natale non era sotto quegli alberi vetrificati di gelo e di luna. She wanted to close the eyes of the dead herself, and first among them, Sardegna who lay with fist clenched. A fist, even when abandoned on the cement that way, that before was truly hard and Ligurian, despite his assumed name of Sardegna. And at last, without a tear, she knew that she had found a match for that immense, almost living thing in her belly: Per- haps it was one of the last chestnut husks, weighed down by the snow.

All four of them were focusing on those soft thuds each clump fell, echo- ing the distant muffled rumble of mortar fire. If they were pleased that Pablo continued talking, it was only to see the cloud of vapor coming out of his mouth in the glimmer of the moonlit: It was not even down in the valley where the Trebbia River, choked with enormous ice floes, bottle-green under the moon, no longer flowed along the village that kept all its lights extinguished; and it was not even in the city: With almost every blast — maybe while someone a child, a little girl, a mother died because of that strike, under the rubble of a wall -- another clump of snow slid from the trees, and fell softly as Pablo continued talk- ing, and someone died.

But while the bells were silent, and not one single light was on, why did Pablo, continue to speak on that night between the 24th and 25th of December of Christmas that was no longer there, either, a few kilometers away from the village? The clumps of snow continued to fall softly, echoing the distant mortars.

It was a night, this is certain: Le traduzio- ni sono comparse sulla rivista El Ghibli - e su altre riviste online e cartacee. Le sue raccolte poetiche sono state tradotte in varie lingue, tra cui francese, spagnolo, norvegese, finlandese, sloveno e afrikaans. Le sue poesie sono state pubblicate in oltre 50 antologie e libri di testo. Libri e tascabili Prairie Pub Poems tascabile, poesia. Wind Songs tascabile, poesia Thistledown Press, Saskatoon, Prairie Pub Poems poesia. Thistledown Press, Saskatoon, Pear Seeds in My Mouth tascabile, poesia. Sesame Press, Windsor, Jan Lake Poems poesia.

Harbour Publishing, Madeira Park, Hold the Rain in Your Hands: Coteau Books, Regina, Poems Across Borders poesia. Air Canada Owls poesia. Nightwood Editions, Madeira Park. West Into Night poesia. Jan Lake Sharing poetry chapbook. Privately printed, Saskatoon, with Jim Harris.

Birchbark Meditations poetry chapbook. Writers of the Plains, New Mexico, Icons of Flesh poesia. Ekstasis Editions, Victoria, Today I Belong to Agnes poesia. Leaving Holds Me Here: Selected Poems poetry. Frog Hollow Press, Victoria, Smoky Peace Press, Grande Prairie, Halo of Morning tascabile, poesia. Leaf Press, Lantzville, Language of Horse poesia online; tascabile, poesia Coracle Press, Montreal, Road Apples tascabile, poesia Rubicon Press, Edmonton, What We Miss poesia.

Looking Back Sometimes I am shaken by a desire to return to that child I was- endless days under a vast sky, sun omnipresent as the mongrel that dogged my footsteps. A half-century and more removed, I remember each day bloomed wonder. Never bored, I did not realize how poor we were, having so much. Perhaps it is our nature to hold hard to what causes least pain? To indulge moments of nostalgia is no act of foolishness. Sguardo sul passato A volte sono scosso da un desiderio di ritornare il bambino che ero — giorni infiniti sotto un cielo immenso sole onnipresente come il cane bastardo che mi tallonava.

La raccolta si articola in cinque parti: Suspension of Belief Cables, ropes and wooden slats create a seemingly fragile sagging arc high above the crash and dash of Capilano Canyon. In my eyes this is not a bridge — but rather, some adult deceit designated to instill fear in a small boy. Father takes my hand, envelops it in warmth, strength and security a child comes to accept as truth. Beneath my feet faith and trust teeter and sway side to side, nothing beneath me but a void my fear has filled.

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Mio padre mi prende la mano, la avvolge col calore, la forza e la sicurezza che un bambino riconosce come veri. Sotto i miei piedi fede e fiducia traballano e oscillano fianco a fianco, niente sotto di me se non un vuoto colmato dalla mia paura. The Thief Reflects Tell me, what have I stolen from you that you have missed? Surely you know I have taken only inessential fragments you would have shed without my help. I can in no way be dismissed as common thief, nor as cheap trickster. You must agree I am a thief of impeccable taste:

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